I’m having a pre-moving yard sale. I’ve never done this before, but the neighborhood association makes it easy by having a block-party style yard sale, and taking care of all the advertising and such.
While pricing and selling my stuff, I wonder if I’ve been too quick to judge my profession’s bibliophilia. At least if you know exactly what you love you don’t have difficult decisions to make — books may be heavy, but to a bibliophile their spiritual value is clear enough. No philosophical dilemmas about dragging them hither and yon.
The books were easy for me to ditch. My other stuff is proving harder. I’ve gotten pretty good at eschewing sentimental attachment, but now I’ve got the (I think) thirtysomething problem of deciding what stuff is me. The soul/luggage problem, a variant of the infamous mind/body problem.
For instance, I think practicality is a good yardstick for keeping stuff. So it’s easy to give away the wok I never use, even if my favorite aunt gave it to me. But then there’s the fact that I have some perfectly serviceable stuff, like an unimpressive desk and office chair, that isn’t at all me. It’s clunky and cheap, and I really do think that as you get older you have a right to demand ergonomic and efficient design, preferably with some style.
Same with clothes. There’s something to be said for making sure that everything in your closet inspires, if not perfect Platonic love, then at least some serious like.
So, then, what makes the difference between mere possessions — burdensome luggage — and things that affect, reflect, or define who you really are? And don’t you for a minute start on about how your possessions own you. I don’t buy it. I don’t buy that I’m going to be who I really am living in austerity on a mountaintop somewhere. That is so not me. The fact that it’s easy to choose clothes over my other posessions makes that much clear to me.
As for the other stuff? Not so much luck. I really like to cook, but am I really the sort of person who needs a roasting pan? Or would I rather take up that space with a fabulous teal raincoat? Well, now that I put it that way, the answer seems clear.
And I suppose this is really just the same thing as my struggle about Botox. So now I’ll say it loud and clear — yes, I am the sort of person who cares about clothes more than books. I love makeup, too, and I’d rather lug my modest makeup case around than the three books that could fit in it.
So there.